Get a Spot
by Lif61
Summary: After Aziraphale breaks up with Crowley, Crowley takes his feelings out on his plants.


Crowley barely remembered driving back to his flat. Maybe he'd hit someone, or a bird (he hoped not a duck — but what would a duck be doing in Soho?), and he didn't much care (except for the duck).

'_There isn't anywhere to go._'

'_Go off together? Listen to yourself._'

'_Friends? We're not friends. We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don't even like you._'

'_We're on opposite sides._'

'_There is no "our side," Crowley. Not anymore. It's over._'

_Aziraphale._

It started as a thought, thinking of the prim, proper, anxiety-filled angel he'd known for six thousand years, and it passed his lips as poison as he sauntered down the hall, 'Fucking Azirphale!' He screamed it up to the ceiling, to the sky, towards Heaven, hoping maybe they'd hear it and take care of this ripping and aching in his heart, in his chest, the agony that trickled out into his ribs as splintering aches. He leaned down, screaming into his phone, 'Fuck you, Aziraphale!' He screeched through his teeth, pulling at his hair, jumping up and down. 'Fuck!'

'_There isn't anywhere to go._'

'_Go off together? Listen to yourself._'

'_Friends? We're not friends._'

'_I don't even like you._'

'_There is no "our side…"_'

'_It's over._'

'_It's a big universe. Even if this all ends up in a pile of burning goo, we can go off together._'

'_How long have we been friends? Six thousand years!_'

'_We're on _our side_._'

Crowley stalked over to his plants, footsteps loud taps on the polished stone floor, and he lowered his sunglasses, glaring at the perfect, green leaves.

_Why do they have to be perfect?_

He wanted to see ruin, wanted to break them.

'Get a spot!' he shouted. 'Get a spot! One of you, do it! I swear on all things vile and unholy and the great tits of the antichrist's mum, if you don't get a spot _right now_, you're all going! All of you!'

He slowly removed his sunglasses, tension wired into every movement, and he hooked them into his shirt. He leaned down, glowering, observing, slitted eyes deadly, showing more of the predatory yellow than the black. He saw nothing but perfection.

Perfection.

Perfection, fucking perfection, and Azirphale wasn't his…

Wasn't his friend.

No, that was too small a word. Wasn't his partner, wasn't his other half, his everything.

Six thousand years and they didn't have a side together.

There would be no running away with him.

No more Aziraphale and his stupid holier-than-thou attitude. No more of his sweet tooth, his naïvety, his dumb magic tricks, his soft smile, his poor, confused, _boring_ morals, his familiar smell, and lovely voice Crowley always loved hearing after delving into the pits of Hell.

The end of days.

And no more Aziraphale.

And _now_ his plants decided to be perfect?

Crowley snarled at the tallest one, baring his teeth at it, and then he drew his tongue out and hissed.

'Oh, look at me,' he mimicked in a high-pitched voice and a poorly done impression of Aziraphale if he might be a plant. 'I'm all high up, and won't kill the antichrist. Why don't you do it? Oh, and we're not together anymore. I won't fraternize with demons, so I don't have a spot! Cheerio!' To add to it, he blew a raspberry at the now-shivering plant. In fact, all the plants were shivering.

They should be.

It was over.

He stamped his foot and shrieked, 'Get a spot! Get a fucking spot!'

They shook, and jerked, and shivered, and he growled, facing all of them down.

'_Go off together?_ _Listen to yourself._'

'_We're not friends._'

'_I don't even like you._'

'_There is no "our side…"_'

'_It's over._'

'_Ahhh!_'

Defeated, he fell against the wall and slid to the floor, letting a few tears fall. The plants calmed as he stared at the blank grey wall before him, facing destruction, no reason to save the world, and facing it alone.

_Six thousand years. A lot to lose, angel. A lot to lose._

Crowley rotated his shoulder, titling his head to the right, and there he saw it, on one of the tiny potted plants nestled at the bottom: a spot; brown, withered, decay.

The plant quivered as he reached out to grab it, and Crowley kissed it, feeling akin to this small, imperfect, unforgivable thing.

'You and me,' he told it. 'We both have our spots.'


End file.
